


and the waitress is practicing politics

by ere_the_sun_rises



Series: Esther on Ice [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alcohol, Drinking & Talking, First Meetings, Other, Rostelecom Cup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 21:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12284877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ere_the_sun_rises/pseuds/ere_the_sun_rises
Summary: Michele shifted uncomfortably in his seat, turning to stare at the bottles lining the wall behind them. For a long time, they sat in silence. In that time, Michele polished off his drink, and though he hesitated, he picked up the second one. “I was this close to the Final,” he bemoaned. “Now I’m sitting in the hotel bar, drinking with a stranger.”Aileen shrugged. “It’s better than drinking alone.”





	and the waitress is practicing politics

**Author's Note:**

> This was a scene I originally had planned for Chapter 9, but as I progressed in writing the story, I realized I wanted to stick to Esther's point of view. I still really liked this bit, so I decided to publish it separately. In the future, there may be other ficlets in a similar vein.

Honest to God, Aileen had tried. She’d gotten prettied up for the banquet in spite of the overwhelming urge to hide under the covers and refuse to speak to anyone. Ntombi was feeling low, that was plain for anyone to see, and she didn’t want to make it worse and leave her alone. Of course, she’d been reminded of Esther Markowitz as soon as she got there.

About her, Aileen wasn’t sure what to think. She came across aloof, like she was drifting in and out of their plane and a different one, snapping back in for the oddest things. But her skating was brilliant, even when it was shitty—a regular Viktor Nikiforov, vanishing from the ice only to show up again out of the blue, dazzle the world, and yank her qualification right out from under her.

It wasn’t really a fair judgment, she knew that: her program was weaker, this year, than what it could be, and Sofia Borisova had been unexpectedly brilliant. If Esther Markowitz had maintained her self-imposed exile, though, Aileen would have squeaked in.

“Enough,” Fiona told her, as they rode down in the elevator. Age had only made the woman thinner and sharper, like a barren birch in the dead of winter. “Trot that face out, and I’ll have you run suicides that will make you want to follow through.”

Aileen sighed and did her best to adopt a more neutral face. In truth, her relationship with Fiona was nearly over. She’d been a good coach through her Junior years, and they’d certainly made good strides together, but now more than ever she could feel the stagnation. Her contract would be up at the end of the season—this banquet would be as good an opportunity as any to start shopping for a replacement.

Still, the inertia only mounted as they entered, as she found Ntombi, trying her best to put up a cheery front, as they were joined by Esther, who, even with another silver medal to her name, still managed to be gloomy. And so she excused herself, managed to wish the prodigal daughter luck in the Final, and left them there. There was a small twinge of regret for leaving Ntombi there, but she’d already had to ask her to be nice once. She would apologize again later.

Aileen left the hotel ballroom with every intention of heading back up to her room, but as she reentered the lobby, something stopped her in her tracks.

There was a single figure at the hotel bar, hunched down over where his elbows met the counter—if there were other reasons for a fellow to be wearing a suit, she didn’t know them—and the brown of his hair looked familiar.

Sure enough, as she approached, she recognized Michele Crispino, looking near as miserable as she felt. His tie was already loosened, the top button of his shirt undone.

Aileen slid onto the seat beside him. “Whatever he’s having,” she said, handing her card over to open the tab. “And one more for him.” The bartender nodded, and turned to the shelves at his back.

Michele’s head had swiveled to look at her the moment she’d begun speaking, and by the time she was done, he was frowning. “What are you doing?”

She faced him down and refused to balk. “The same thing you are.” It had caused a small stir in the men’s singles; Michele Crispino and Yuuri Katsuki tying for points; Katsuki making it through by virtue of an earlier silver, rather than a bronze. Michele had given the performance of his career, and he’d failed to make it too—no wonder he was drowning his sorrows. They had a lot in common, she realized, the both of them good but not quite great, struggling to make it on the same level as the Yuuri Katsukis and the Esther Markowitzes of their world. The notion of fighting for scraps for whatever remained of her career was enough to leave her feeling slightly sick to her stomach, so she banished the thought, took a hearty swig of her drink when it was set in front of her.

“I should be the one buying you drinks,” he muttered, sipping again from his own glass.

“If I waited around all the time for men to figure out what I wanted, I’d never get anything,” she retorted. He gave her that pained, vaguely constipated look again, and she sighed. “Well, were you going to buy me one?”

He scoffed. “I don’t even _know_ you.”

Aileen raised her eyebrows, gestured _you see?_ and took another drink.

“That still doesn’t explain why you bought me one, though.”

“Hm?” she cast him a sidelong glance, refusing to relinquish her whatever-it-was just yet. It burned going down, and it tasted good; a little bitter, a little sweet.

“You said you didn’t want to wait around. That doesn’t say anything about why you bought me one too.”

Aileen set her glass down. “Jesus, it’s just a common bloody courtesy. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it off your hands.”

Michele shifted uncomfortably in his seat, turning to stare at the bottles lining the wall behind them. For a long time, they sat in silence. In that time, Michele polished off his drink, and though he hesitated, he picked up the second one. “I was this close to the Final,” he bemoaned. “Now I’m sitting in the hotel bar, drinking with a stranger.”

Aileen shrugged. “It’s better than drinking alone.” For a second, she could’ve sworn that there was a flicker of a smile on his face, but it was too quick for her to judge, and she was finally starting to feel a buzz.

She finished her drink, and before she could so much as lift a finger, Michele was asking for another one for her. Aileen lifted an eyebrow. “We’re even now,” he said, quickly, in a _don’t-read-into-it_ kind of way. She rolled her eyes.

“I wouldn’t say we’re strangers.”

“I’ve never talked to you before.”

“Strangers don’t know anything about each other. People like you and I, the ones who’ve been in it this long, we don’t get the luxury of anonymity.” She picked up her second glass with a nod to the bartender. “And we’re talking to each other now, aren’t we?”

She’d been counting on another gusty sigh, but the look that he gave her was thoughtful, though suspicious still. “What have you heard about me?”

 _Well, that’s interesting._ Aileen took a thoughtful sip, let it sit on her tongue a moment before swallowing. “That anybody who so happens to be a man can give up on saying even a word to your sister.” She left out the part about him being an idiot who couldn’t tell his sister was, at the moment, not the least bit preoccupied with men, partially to be diplomatic, and partially because she didn’t want to end up unintentionally breaking that news.

“Is that it?”

“Also, that you’re an asshole.” She sipped her drink. “Mostly related to the first thing.” A small shrug. “That’s it, really.” Michele took it with a weary, resigned shrug; he didn’t seem too broken up about it. Aileen leaned over, resting her weight on her elbows, suddenly curious. “What have you heard about me?”

“Interesting footwork, temper,” he rattled off. She waited for more, but he just took another sip of his drink, shrugging at her again.

“Wait, that’s it? Skating doesn’t count, anybody could look at a video and say you…” she trailed off, flushing to the roots of her hair. Alcohol always loosened her tongue.

“Say I what?”

“What do you think of my skating?” she asked, instead, and he looked at her like she’d just said _does this make me look fat?_ She snickered at him, while he scratched at the back of his neck, but fell silent in surprise when he began to answer.

“I like it. Your footwork really is good. I think you could be a really serious competitor, if you tightened up your jumps.”

Aileen blinked at him. She looked down into her glass, swirled the amber-colored liquid and watched her reflection shimmer across the distorted surface. “I think I’m going to look for a new coach.”

“Sara’s coach is really good with that,” he observed. He hadn’t meant it as an invitation, but it didn’t stop her from feeling like it was one. And Sara had to have that wicked triple Lutz-triple loop for a reason…

“I think your skating is good too,” she spoke, chasing another brief silence. “When you let go, and skated your feelings today…it was really good.” She felt her cheeks flushing again, cursed her pale complexion and blamed it on the alcohol.

“You think so?” he looked at her, for the first time, with something approaching vulnerability. It made him look about ten years younger, and Aileen realized, belatedly, that Michele Crispino was really fucking pretty—he was a little sturdier than a lot of the boys, taller and stronger, with that warm burnt-sienna skin, soft, spiky auburn hair, absurd midnight-purple eyes.

“Yeah,” she said, softly, in a little bit of a daze, one she hoped she could write off, reasonably, on the drinking. This Russian stuff had to be stronger, that would explain it. In the morning, she’d wake up sober, and Michele Crispino would still be an unbearable, overbearing dick.

He smiled, only briefly, not even directly at her, but it was enough to put a harpoon through all her plans. _Oh, fuck._ Mercifully, the look soon faded, replaced with one of melancholy. “Sara said she wants to spend more time apart. She thinks it’ll be good for both of us.” He sighed. “I think…no, I know she’s right. I just…don’t know what to do, now. You said it yourself. Everyone thinks I’m an asshole.”

Aileen watched him brooding in the soft, low light; watched and wondered how Italy was in the wintertime—mild, probably, far more so than Dublin. “Well.” For the time being, she reached over, thinking to deliver a playful shove to his shoulder, but somehow, she ended up patting it instead. “I don’t think you’re an asshole. I don’t think you mean to be, at least. At any rate…I hear I’ve got a mean temper. Maybe we’re a good match.”

He gave her another one of his quizzical, narrow-eyed stares, and Aileen tried to will another blush away. Then, suddenly, the small smile was back, and this time it even stayed. Her hand was still on his shoulder, she realized, and she quickly took it back. They looked at each other, wordless, and turned away with quiet, sheepish, nervous laughter. Michele stared ahead at the liquor shelves, an attractive, rosy flush riding high on his cheeks, smiling, for all intents and purposes, at a half-empty bottle of sweet vermouth.

Aileen drained the rest of her drink, and made up her mind to check if Sara Crispino’s coach was willing to take on anyone else.


End file.
